There are some That weigh and measure all in these waste seas— They that have all the wisdom that’s in life, And all that prophesying images Made of dim gold rave out in secret tombs; They have it that the plans of kings and queens Are dust on the moth’s wing; that nothing matters But laughter and tears—laughter, laughter, and tears; That every man should carry his own soul Upon his shoulders. DECTORA. You’ve nothing but wild words, And I would know if you will give me vengeance. FORGAEL. When she finds out I will not let her go— When she knows that. DECTORA. What is it that you are muttering— That you’ll not let me go? I am a queen. FORGAEL. Although you are more beautiful than any, I almost long that it were possible; But if I were to put you on that ship, With sailors that were sworn to do your will, And you had spread a sail for home, a wind Would rise of a sudden, or a wave so huge, It had washed among the stars and put them out, And beat the bulwark of your ship on mine, Until you stood before me on the deck— As now. DECTORA. Does wandering in these desolate seas And listening to the cry of wind and wave Bring madness? FORGAEL. Queen, I am not mad. DECTORA. And yet you say the water and the wind Would rise against me. FORGAEL. No, I am not mad— If it be not that hearing messages From lasting watchers, that outlive the moon, At the most quiet midnight is to be stricken. DECTORA. And did those watchers bid you take me captive? FORGAEL. Both you and I are taken in the net. It was their hands that plucked the winds awake And blew you hither; and their mouths have promised I shall have love in their immortal fashion. They gave me that old harp of the nine spells That is more mighty than the sun and moon, Or than the shivering casting-net of the stars, That none might take you from me. DECTORA. [_First trembling back from the mast where the harp is, and then laughing._] For a moment Your raving of a message and a harp More mighty than the stars half troubled me. But all that’s raving. Who is there can compel The daughter and granddaughter of kings To be his bedfellow? FORGAEL. Until your lips Have called me their beloved, I’ll not kiss them. DECTORA. My husband and my king died at my feet, And yet you talk of love. FORGAEL. The movement of time Is shaken in these seas, and what one does One moment has no might upon the moment That follows after. DECTORA. I understand you now. You have a Druid craft of wicked sound Wrung from the cold women of the sea— A magic that can call a demon up, Until my body give you kiss for kiss. FORGAEL. Your soul shall give the kiss.